


And I would be the one to hold you down

by goingdownin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom Sherlock, First Time, M/M, NSFW, PWP, Set whenever, Top John, but tender, exhaustion thy name is smut, it surely has a concussion, poor headboard, smut cause my day sucked and I can't sleep, the walls of 221B are melting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:31:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8779636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingdownin221b/pseuds/goingdownin221b
Summary: "And I would be the oneto hold you downkiss you so hardI'll take your breath away...."     - Sarah McLachlan, "Possession" Set whenever you'd like. Seriously. This could be them any time.Sex, but loving sex. So I'd say PWP but well...it's them.





	

It’s the way they’ve always done things together, since long before they were lovers: tentatively at first, then with reckless, intuitive abandon.

They build a slow, rocking counterpoint, first gentle—cautious, almost—then fluid. For each of John’s forward thrusts Sherlock raises his hips ever so slightly and grinds back against him, his legs circled around his friend, pressing him in tighter. They watch the minute shifts in each other’s expressions, the subtle questions and flickers of surprise and ecstasy. For a very long while they hardly look away from the other’s gaze, as if they wouldn’t dare. As if to do so would mean failing the other.

John’s hands stroke down Sherlock’s long, pale arms and lock around his wrists, pinning him to the bed and using that leverage to quicken the pace and begin to add force to his movements. Sherlock tilts his head back, dark curls spilling soft over the white sheets. His eyelashes flutter as he’s caught in a cycle of breathlessness as John subtly rolls his hips and brushes that electrifying spot inside him over and over again. 

“ _J-John…._ ” Sherlock’s throat moves as he swallows hard.

John is so absorbed in the moment, in Sherlock, in the fact of what they are doing, that he takes his time responding. Instead he memorizes the quiet of the room around them and the long, unmarred plain of his friend’s pale chest, his delicately peaked nipples. Everything but this sensation they’re creating is obsolete; everything else has fallen away, and there is no dialogue that could possibly be relevant; just the sound of Sherlock’s voice wracked with pleasure, stuttering and needy, all by itself is enough.

Never breaking rhythm, John finally leans closer to Sherlock and responds with a gust of warm air over his lips. “Yes, Sherlock.” It isn’t a question, in response to the not-a-question of his name in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock draws a breath and, before it can become anything, John breaks rhythm with a sudden hard thrust, forcing the air from the detective’s lungs in one long, quavering expulsion.

It bears repeating. “Yes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s renewed breath catches on the beginnings of a moan, but it’s _too much too much too much_ and John plunders his mouth with a sweet kiss that has nothing in common to the way he’s now driving his cock into Sherlock’s tight opening. Sherlock returns the kiss with a whimper at the back of his throat, and from this angle his cock brushes John’s abdomen, slick and warm. 

Sherlock’s hands flex into fists. John feels the movements through the way the ligaments and bones shift in his wrists, but he doesn’t let go. Instead he licks reverently at the other man’s mouth as he backs out of the kiss, then finds his earlobe to nibble it gently, taking the opportunity to deliver another hard thrust. “Yes, Sherlock.” Now it’s an affirmation, permission, an encouragement just before John’s tongue and teeth find the sensitive patch of skin just behind where he’s been suckling. 

“Oh my god, John.” Sherlock’s entire body quakes with a violent shiver, and John’s whole abdomen is slick from his weeping cock.

John positively loses his mind. The tip of his nose brushes the side of Sherlock’s. He’s overcome with a potent mix of tenderness and stark-raving-mad lust. “I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, and Sherlock’s pale eyes lock on his again, the strange familiarity of them sending a corresponding shock through John: a blaze of certainty that it’s okay to say it. That it’s silly to have ever thought otherwise. “I’ve never wanted anything but this. You.”

Sherlock’s face softens further, then, after a moment, is lit by a soft smile. He looks so at peace that John wants to seal it for him, this moment; he wants to drive all other thoughts out of his detective’s tumultuous mind. So he ducks his head, closing his eyes in bliss, and lathes his tongue delicately over his friend’s left nipple. 

Sherlock arches into the pleasure of it. “I’m—I’m so close—John, please—“ 

He’s truly pleading, not putting it on. He needs completion, and only John can give it to him. 

“Shhhh.” John noses over Sherlock’s long throat, then his cheek. “I know, baby. You want to come.” He opens his eyes again, takes in how blown Sherlock’s pupils are, the fine sheen of sweat covering his whole body. “I’ll make you. I’m going to make you come so hard.” What he feels isn’t confidence, exactly, but a knowing that he feels with his entire body, an empathetic surety. “I don’t even have to touch you….”

Sherlock’s abdomen tenses as he pants noisily, straining toward the sensation. His balls have tightened and he hardens even further as John abandons the build-up and fucks him as fast and hard as he can, hitting Sherlock’s prostate with every thrust and making the headboard bang the wall. John’s hips snap forward, and the sound of flesh meeting flesh is the final thing that drives Sherlock over the blinding edge.

“Oh, fuck! John, yes! That’s it, there, _ohmygod, unh, there…._ ” He bites his lower lip, head tilting back again and eyes slamming closed as he begins to come, trembling uncontrollably, hot ropes of semen striping his abdomen as John watches, transfixed. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen and that, combined with Sherlock’s warm baritone voice, triggers him into a violent climax. He freezes and then groans as he pulses inside Sherlock again and again, releasing his wrists to grab his hips as he finishes, gasping.

John falls on the bed beside Sherlock, trying to catch his breath. After a moment they look over at each other and smile simultaneously, warmly. John reaches over the side of the bed to grab the vest he’d discarded earlier, and uses it to gently swab Sherlock clean. After he has tossed it away he opens his arms and Sherlock curls in against him, the tip of his nose pressing warmly against his chest and one leg tucking between his. 

Sherlock whispers something so sure and heartfelt that it makes John’s eyes water with happiness as he cards a hand into his lover’s warm hair and clutches him even closer, somehow.

It’s one word, exhaled on a contented sigh. After a moment, Sherlock repeats it. 

“This.”


End file.
